Surpassing the Lethe
by DelicateScholar
Summary: Updated on Hawthorne and Vine Ten years of Draco's memory is missing. He's been convicted for being an accomplice to the murder of Hermione Granger. He has to wade through lies and half-truths and general suspicion to find out what's really happened.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any such derivatives.

Draco Malfoy had lost ten years of his life.

His fingers trembled as he lightly touched the rain-splotched parchment proudly proclaiming "The Daily Prophet." Splayed across the front page, two people he didn't recognize shook hands, waving at him . His eyes flitted over the articles, finding nothing to fill in the gap where his memories should be.

_"Professor Griselda Marchbanks, CDMG, APMO, fdBB, was moved to Isle of Wight for her burial service. She served over one hundred and ten years on the Wizengamot..."  
"Magical Creature Amendment Under Inspection. Dirk Cresswell, new Head of Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures refutes Gawain Robard's allegations that the proposed bill is not only 'irresponsible, but hazardous to the health of...'"  
"The highly vaunted Auror Weasley speaks about the latest developments in Magical Law Enforcement, including breakthrough discoveries about Dementors, the former guards of Azkaban. "Even though they will never retain their former usefulness," Weasley explains, "we hope to..."  
_  
Draco bit out a curse, throwing the newspaper to the ground. "That miserable, mush-brained sod is a 'highly vaunted' Auror? I bet he wanked off just reading that." The paper laid there innocuously where he threw it, the two unfamiliar people on the front eyeing him dubiously and inching toward the edge of the picture. He was tempted to go kick it for good measure, but what good would that do?  
He looked around the room again. There was nothing remarkable in the room, only clean, white walls and a flat mattress in the corner. So this was Azkaban. He had wondered if he would ever see the inside of it after his father had been taken. Dreams of Dementors gliding up to his bed had haunted his waking hours for months.  
The empty shell of the room glared at him, and Draco felt as if the weight of his ignorance and confusion was pushing in on him. Worse still, the date scrawled elegantly across the top of The Daily Prophet mocked him.

_November 3, 2007.  
_  
He loathed the sight of it, yet he knew it was there even when he looked resolutely at one of the blank walls. All four walls were an unassuming white, holding nothing to break the monotony. Not a crack, not a stain, not even a miserable little cobweb hanging in the corner to ease his need for _different_.  
He had tried banging on the walls, shouting until his voice was hoarse and his knuckles were swollen. There hadn't been a response from the moment he woke up, alone and in a thin, pale green robe that was a little wrinkled and damp on one side. His nose crinkled at the scratchy, thin quality of the material.  
Where else but Azkaban would he be? The last coherent memory he had was standing beneath a large tree with dying leaves; Professor Snape had been handing him something wrapped in several dead leaves. He hadn't wanted to take it, he could remember. He could still see Professor Snape's dour face twisted in an impatient snarl, saying words, cruel words Draco knew too well to be completely cowed by, when something had bludgeoned him from behind.  
That was mere weeks after his escape from Hogwarts. His insides twisted sharply at the thought, regret and nausea mingling together to form a tumultuous pit in his stomach. Turning his face away from the wall, he contemplated the paper again.  
It was ridiculous to think that his last memory was not only of being a schoolboy fugitive, but that it was over a decade out of date. What little he knew of Dementors could not explain this phenomenon; they may steal happiness and devour souls, but he had never read that a person suffered from memory loss. Ah, but Draco, he reminded himself, they do cause you to go insane. [or something to that effect—that little sentence wasn't as effective as you wanted, I don't think]

Besides, the news had implied the Dementors were not the recent Azkaban guards, and had not been for a while. No, there had to be another explanation—  
Preferably one that started with "The Daily Prophet" having made a grievous error on the date of their latest edition. He sat against the wall, his hand drooping over one propped knee. Without his wand, there was nothing to do here but wait. He had already carefully inspected his hands – the untended skin, uneven nails, and several unfamiliar scars knicking his right index finger, left ring finger and the back of two knuckles. Malfoys, he recited with a moue of distaste, did not appear less than their best. They were immaculate, superior wizards, the voice of his father sneered, with one of the few unblemished bloodlines left in Europe, if not farther still.

There was little difference in his face, that he could feel, other than the dry skin, and he was loath to peek under his robe. He didn't know who could be watching.  
When the white of the wall began to swim before his unblinking gaze, he distantly wondered if he was indeed insane. How could he not be, if this was Azkaban and he had been staring at the same wall for the better part of his youth?

A short, harsh ringing sound broke his reverie, and the resonance reminded him of the cauldron sized bell that clanged from the wooden Wizard's clock that had been planted in the foyer of the Manor for as long as he could remember. He rubbed one ear, shuddering more at the similarity than at the volume.  
"Up and at 'em, Malfoy." A tall, wiry figure stood in the middle of an open doorway that Draco knew hadn't been there a moment ago. Or was it? Was he already deteriorating down the slippery slope of madness that his Father had claimed failure would earn him?  
"Come on Malfoy." It was a sharp, familiar voice that he knew would belong to someone loathsome, and yet, he was still irrationally pleased to hear it after all that intolerable silence. He climbed to his feet, surprised at the stiff pain in his lower back and haunches. How long had he been sitting there, watching the wall?  
No matter. He walked slowly, with dignity that hid a limp he desperately wanted to fall back on, eyeing the older man. The dark skin, the widely flared nostrils and scowling mouth were all familiar. He could have been Dean Thomas's father, but if he recalled correctly – and he always did – the black Gryffindor was a complete mudblood.  
The man had a wand pointed at his throat, taking a practiced step back as Draco approached. A head jerk indicated he should go left. Draco stepped to the left and followed him without protest, unwilling to goad an armed man who had to be a guard of some sort. The corridor was nearly as uninteresting as the room he had been in, and he daren't peek back to see if his door was still there. He didn't want to know.  
They walked for what seemed like miles, and impatience crept up. He had to bite his tongue to keep from venting his frustration that he would be treated in such a manner. But what did he expect? Son of an exposed Death Eater, betrayer of Hogwarts' most beloved Headmaster, oh, and a Slytherin. No one outside the four Death Eaters witnessed his duplicity and subsequent failure, but who would believe he was innocent? Professor Snape had only spoken once on the harsh reality of becoming a Death Eater, punctuated with expressions of disgust at his stupidity – as well as a few interesting, but impossible allegations about his ancestry – but they had been ignored and forgotten by the headstrong sixth year. Who, far too late, deteriorated into an anxious, desperate child that began to forget why family honor was so important.  
Now where was he? Was he passing by an invisible door that held his father? He had a horrifying image of his father wrapped in thin, lime green robes, his domineering face slack with dried spittle crusting his chin, his hair sparse and white like the Longbottoms'. Draco shuddered, almost missing the end of the hallway. The older version of Dean Thomas jerked his wand toward the pale door, eyeing him with basic disinterest and an undercurrent of disdain. Draco gave him a quick smirk as he stepped through the widening gap in the door.  
The color blinded him for a full minute, swimming together in a way that made his stomach drop. His vision cleared to showcase three wizards sitting in a row behind a wooden table. The walls were a stark white. He gave another imperceptible shudder, but he refused to sit in the lone chair to the door's left, or make any move at all until someone explained to him what was going on.  
"Draco Malfoy, please have a seat." The witch who spoke was an older woman, only vaguely familiar. She gave him a gentle, measuring look that gave nothing away. The man to her left was much older; he had a sky blue eye patch that matched his robes firmly pressed over one eye. He was even more familiar. Was he that old Auror that eyed father suspiciously when they went out on walks? But that Auror had not been this old.  
Unless it was true that he had indeed missed ten years of his life. This thought made him remember his stiff muscles, aching now with some undefinable tension as he eyed the witch in the third seat coolly.  
Ginny Weasley. Not the snub nosed, freckle-faced girl that, as he recalled, dated many older boys. She wasn't laughing or scowling now, which Draco had formerly taken to be her only two forms of expression; her longer, older face was downcast and she appeared to be reading the paperwork in front of her morosely. Only a hint of her chin jutting out gave evidence that she was more than just moping. His stomach dropped as he gazed at her; if that was Weasley, the youngest of them, then he really had lost years of his memory. A parchment can be enchanted and lie, but he could hardly refute the evidence of aging classmates.  
With his eyes still on Ginny, he demanded, "Where am I? Why am I being held here?" The cheap robe made a dry, rustling sound as he crossed his arms.  
The man spoke in a dry, unaffected voice. "You're at the Parkhurst Medical Penitentiary. You were in a cell in Azkaban when you began to display several genuine symptoms of a full memory charm. You appeared to be unconscious, but executed several convulsions, punctuated by severe tremors and a sudden drop in temperature, as well as other symptoms."  
Draco said nothing. What he wanted to do was burst into movement: scream, yell, throw the chair at them just so they understood that this made no sense to him, that they only added to his confusion. If somebody had Obliviated him – a reality of Dark Magic, though he had never considered the implication toward himself – any number of things could have gone wrong. It could have been a botched memory charm that actually damaged parts of his brain, or a very thorough charm that had shut his memories away forever.  
It was too much to conceive that he could have lived, truly lived all those years only to have them wiped away in the two seconds it took to cast an incantation.  
He fell back on habit. "So you stuck me in another cell. Of course, I wouldn't expect an organization that employs Weasleys to actually be efficient." He sneered, eyeing the two older ones, the obvious points of authority. If only they knew what it cost him to sit here and be patient with them, wait for them to execute all their little procedures so he could find out the important facts – such as what year it was.  
"The room you are in is specifically designed for complete monitoring of dangerous witches and wizards with a serious medical condition. Despite what you may have heard in the past about conditions of Azkaban, we do not abuse our inmates. Your condition was stable, the diagnostic spells were inconclusive, and you are considered a dangerous wizard, Mr. Malfoy."  
Despite the queer little thrill that gave him – not entirely unpleasant – he only scowled more voraciously. "What exactly am I being accused of? For all I know, some overzealous Auror botched a memory charm and this 'story' is just a fabrication to bring down the Malfoy name." He leaned forward in his chair, the vicious hiss trickling out like a broken spout. "Where is my Father? I want evidence, witnesses – and not Potter's little girlfriend – and I want—"  
"Mr. Malfoy!" the woman in the middle said, a pristine witch's hat perfectly balanced on her snow white head; he met her pale blue eyes and was once again struck with a peculiar sense of familiarity. "I must ask that you save your outbursts for someone who it will matter to."  
Draco leaned back in his chair, not quite stunned but taken aback. From the precise snap of her words to the faint narrowing of her pale eyes, as well as the hint of condescension twitching the side of her mouth, she reminded him so much of his father that he had to take a closer look. There was nothing in her stern, wrinkled face that actually resembled his father; her mouth was full and lined, face short and a touch of sagging skin just over the cheeks.  
"I don't know why I'm here," he said in a slow, succinct hiss, "and I want some answers." He glared right back at her, challenging and instinctive. Inside, his heart was pounding so hard that the small sounds of parchments rustling and sleeves rubbing together were lost to him. He didn't want answers. What he wanted was to wake up surrounded by rich emerald curtains, ones that were thick and smooth, with elegant thick ropes holding them closed. He certainly did not want to be here.  
For a moment, he thought none of them would respond. Finally, the crafty, cool-eyed witch said, "Your charges have been tried in the Wizengamot as an accessory for facilitating murder. We found you guilty of conspiracy against the Ministry of Magic as well as possession of more than one documented item of Dark Magic." Her voice was flat, near emotionless except for that hint of cold superiority that grated on his raw nerves.  
"Who? Who did I 'murder'?" he demanded, at once struck by the necessity of this answer.  
The older witch's lips pressed together, and he noted that the youngest Weasley had ducked her head even lower.  
"Hermione Granger."  
The words died on his lips. For one of very few times, Draco could simply not conceive of anything to say. What a ridiculous idea, he thought numbly. If he couldn't kill a helpless Dumbledore, then how could they imagine he would point a wand at Granger's snotty little face and—  
The full impact of her words hit him. His lips drew back from his teeth in a quick grimace, before it faded into a tight, blank look. Granger? The uncouth, show-off mudblood who clearly had an inferiority complex? Professor Snape's words floated back to him, days after they fled from Hogwarts. He had found Draco huddled in a miserable heap by the fireplace one chilly morning, unable to get warm no matter how long he sat there.

"You see, Mr. Malfoy, this is not an afternoon diversion that you can amaze and awe your friends with. When you took the title of Death Eater, your life became reliant on your adherence to the Dark Lord's every wish. Do you suppose that we call him the Dark Lord on a whim? Your predictable and foreseeable reaction earlier this week had one desired effect: the Dark Mark has not been seared fully into your flesh. Despite what desperate Death Eaters might claim with the thought of a Dementor's kiss on their mind, it is impossible to force the Dark Mark on an unwilling victim. To fully bind it, you have to take the life of another.  
"The more you flaunt that twisted fealty of loyalty on your arm, the higher the likelihood of someone dying is. Imagine your fellow Slytherins, condemned to a life of miserable anxiety, trying to co-exist between a world that would throw them in Azkaban and a powerful, mad creature that will use them until they die. They will have only a meaningless, squandered half-life, such as I have had for over fifteen years now. People are dying and more will die, people you know and attend school with, and though you may consider yourself superior, Mr. Malfoy, their face will haunt you long after their death."

He could see her eleven-year-old face in that moment, the small, snooty face surrounded by a mass of unruly curls and he could recall unfavorably comparing her likeness to a giant capybara. How Pansy had howled and then cast venomous little smirks toward the Gryffindor table.  
"I don't remember any of this. How can you hold me in a cell for a crime I don't remember committing?"  
"Lack of memory does not constitute rehabilitation, Mr. Malfoy." The witch placed one of her small, swollen hands over the other as she seemed to contemplate him. "Now that you are conscious, several mediwizards from St. André-Jacomet's will be attending to you. We wanted to discern for ourselves the extent of damage, if any. Now, can you please tell us your last memory?" As she spoke, the door opened again. Three people stepped inside, wearing modified versions of the St. Mungo's robes, except these had soft, plum lines running down the side of their eggshell-blue robes. A small badge was emblazoned on their breasts, and each had a neutral, clinical stare as they approached him, wands withdrawn.  
Draco instinctively drew back, eyeing the group with suspicion. "My last memory is fleeing from Professor's ramshackle little hut in the middle of nowhere," he bit out. "The last thing I remember is him shoving me out of the way while your Aurors attacked us from behind."  
The two elder adults glanced at each other, but said nothing. "I spent weeks trying to escape from him, and the moment I break free I get ambushed by your bungling, inept excuses for wizards you call Aurors."  
This strange adult version of Ginny Weasley lifted her head quickly, but he could only read a faint trace of surprise. Again, the other two said nothing but glanced at each other. Draco found himself warming to the topic, one hand absently brushing aside wand tip of the mediwizard as it strayed too close to his line of vision. "I can only imagine how quick you were all to accuse me of wrongdoing, just because I'm a Slytherin and a Malfoy. I never wanted to 'follow in my Father's footsteps,' I was under a great deal of pressure from You-Know-Who to join his ranks. I resisted, naturally, and Professor Snape had spent all school year trying to persuade me, and when that didn't work—"  
At this point, Ginny jumped to her feet, sending her pointed hat fluttering down to the table. For a brief moment, he could remember the look on her face moments before she put a Bat-Bogey hex on him – the furious, untamed frustration that was about to burst. "Why, of all the despicable, rotten, lousy lies to ever spew out of your mouth! Do you expect us to believe that you didn't buckle under the pressure the moment Voldemort threatened your oh so fine skin? Better wizards than you, Malfoy, gave into his demand, and—"  
"Auror Weasley, please have a seat," the wizard said mildly, looking highly unaffected by the outburst. Draco felt a moment's vindictive exultation. "Auror Weasley, is it? 'Highly vaunted?' Tell me, did your brother ever escape the mediocrity of being Potter's sidekick, or has he been overshadowed by his little sister as well?"

Ginny flushed a mottled red, her fists clenching.  
He didn't bother to hide his satisfied smirk as she reacted to his words. After spending the past several hours feeling helpless and ready to scream, it was satisfying to cause someone else the same frustration.  
"Auror Weasley, please have a seat," the witch said more firmly, and then fixed her gaze on him. "If you are finished goading one of your very few supporters, please let me speak." After a moment of silence while Ginny regained her composure and sat, she nodded. "Once the results indicate that you are under the impairment of a well executed memory charm, you will be released for a limited time."  
"I thought memory loss didn't mean I was rehabilitated," Draco said rather smugly, hiding the small thrill of fear and hope that went through him.  
"No, it does not, and indeed you _are_ not. It is the fervent stipulation of the world's most accomplished wizards and witches in the field of Divination that dealing with surroundings familiar to the buried memories will prove more beneficial than simply removing the charm."  
"When can you remove the charm?" he bit out impatiently. Suddenly, finding the missing gap in his memory became important, no, tantamount, to every fiber in his being. How could they expect him to go to the outside world with no memory of the past ten years?  
"I do not know. We have already tried."  
"What about these 'most accomplished wizards and witches?' In Divination, no less?" His voice was sharp with disdain. "Have they tried, has anything been done but let these half-wits poke their wands around my brain?" He shoved aside the wand tip of one of the male mediwizards as it brushed his ear.  
"Unfortunately, one of the leading witches in our branch of has recently passed away," the older witch said coolly, pressing her fingers together. "Obviously, we will not be releasing you without accompaniment. One Auror and one trained mediwizard will be assigned to you at all times. They are there for your protection as well as others'." She rose to her feet, followed by the red-eyed, ashen-faced Weasley and the dried up old wizard.  
"Wait!" He felt a surge of panic, which was interrupted by a surge of annoyance as he shoved an errant wand tip away again. "I still have questions! You can't just leave without telling me what I've missed! You can't do this!"  
"I'm sorry, Mr. Malfoy, but it is out of my hands. Even the questions we did answer are too much." They swept out as he stared after them, torn between seething and pleading with them to come back. But a Malfoy never pleads. Instead, he clenched his fists, the temptation to knock his fist into one of the mediwizards' face as they filed out increasing.

His Father had not condoned physical violence from one wizard to another; it was such a lowbrow Muggle resolution. Like a pig pushing its snout in the mud, rooting for a solution to a problem that could be handled with finesse and elegance.  
He rushed to his feet, left alone in yet another white room, only a plain table and three other chairs his companions. A moment later, the door opened to reveal Dean Thomas – who hadn't aged well, in his opinion – who kept his wand trained on him. Draco stepped toward him, eyeing him with more disdain now. Disturbing as it was to see a classmate ten years older, he covered his rising dismay by noting the loose threads hanging down from Dean's sleeves, the broad forehead that gave him a prematurely balding look, and the old, scuffed shoes that flashed beneath the hem of his robes as he walked.  
Dean, however, seemed to have no more interest in him than the occasional cursory glance to check if he was still following.  
He hated him, knowing the other boy must be smug in his false superiority, leading around a captive pureblood. All he could think of as he stared at the back of his head was how Dean must be remembering every slight Draco had dealt him and all his Housemates. How the tall boy must be gloating, he thought furiously.  
"How does it feel to see your old girlfriend, Dean? I've always wondered, did she start snogging Potter before or after she dumped you?"  
Dean didn't respond. After a mind-numbing distance, Dean turned to him with wand withdrawn and crossed his arms over his chest.  
"You know, I never liked you when we went to school. I thought you were smug and arrogant, and I never started liking you after we graduated. But to be honest, Draco, I stopped hating you a long time ago. I grew up," he said simply, and gave his head a small left twitch. All Draco saw was the glint of pity in Dean's eyes before he was back in his white, bland room.

The next several hours were spent in blissful rage, by the end of which Draco was exhausted, his throat sore, and the forlorn "Daily Prophet" was in thousands of tiny pieces littering the floor.

Author's Notes: Thanks to my lovely and brilliant beta, Divine Delacour. This wouldn't have been submitted without her. I would adore reviews; if you don't have anything nice to say, don't send it.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

There was little else to do but wait. Much to his annoyance and relief, the plain room altered to fit his basic needs. Occasionally a doorway slid into place that led to a bathroom, or a table and a wide armchair popped up with food waiting for him.

There were limits. He couldn't will a door that led to that empty hallway into place, and no matter how hard he tried, the mug on the table always contained pumpkin juice or tea. Not only that, but the meals were deplorable. Lean servings of steamed vegetables, potatoes, and a lump of barely adequate meat with a cold dinner roll soaking up the juices on the side came every dinner. His stomach knotted and protested, but after the first day, he was so hungry that it wouldn't have mattered if they had laid out gruel and moldy cheese.  
By the time that hallway door appeared and opened, he was very agitated. He had on yet another pea-green robe. A clean one was laid out every time he woke up or made use of the tub. He picked at the sleeve with a sniff. It irritated his skin and left small pink lines where it rubbed most.  
After his first refusal to eat, he had been the picture of compliance. He ate when food appeared, showered and shaved when the bathroom appeared, and slept in what he could only guess were decent intervals.  
Draco waited patiently until that plain door appeared again. A tiny brunette wearing the St. André-Jacomet's Healer robes came in, followed by a tall figure in crimson Auror robes. Draco crossed his hands over his stomach, surveying them with a bored air.  
The little mediwitch had plain, straight hair scooped back in a bun, and wore an expression of thinly veiled anxiety. Her tiny hands incessantly smoothed over her pin-straight robes. His lip curled slightly.  
The Auror was as different from her as night from day. He was a large, beefy man with hands the size of Draco's head and his bald head nearly reached the top of the doorway. A smooth, flat badge glittered on his chest; Draco had seen similar ones too many times not to recognize the symbol. Two wands crossed over one upright feather, and a U shaped ribbon bordering the outer edges of the wands. The man had two long scars that bisected his eyebrow and ended at his jaw. They had healed badly; the outer scar was puckered and the skin around his cheek was thick and warped. It was the grotesque mingling of torn flesh and a burn scar—Draco felt mildly repulsed.  
"Draco Malfoy, my name is Kingsley Shacklebolt. The Healer assigned to you is Danielle Holcomb." The behemoth moved toward him quietly, holding out his hand. Draco reluctantly stuck out his hand, watching the thick dark fingers swallow his in a brief handshake. He resisted the urge to wipe his hand off on his robe; the man's skin felt dry and scaly, much like a house elf.  
Shacklebolt surveyed him briefly, nodding once. "Come with me." He turned to the door, engulfing the empty space in the doorway briefly. Danielle followed quickly behind him after giving him a nervous glance. Not a common name, Holcomb, and Draco thought it sounded like spitting up phlegm.  
The corridor was as uninteresting as the last time he was there, except the walk was much shorter. The Auror stopped at another unremarkable door and motioned him to go first, moving his mountainous bulk aside so Draco could pass.  
There were three seats by the wall and a long, horizontal pole suspended five feet from the ground. It was smooth and white, with a flat oval width.  
"Please stand by the bar and place your palms on it," Shacklebolt instructed, as if strange floating rods were commonplace. Perhaps they were in places like this. Reminding himself that any protest might cause them to reconsider his limited freedom, the youngest Malfoy obediently walked across the room and gingerly placed his palms on the smooth surface. It felt like glass, and an unpleasant tingle shot up his arms.  
With a small shudder, he pulled his hands away as soon as Shacklebolt said he could. The large man reached and took something from the end of the rod. It was a wand. Not just any wand, but a twelve-inch wand made from vine wood and a core of a dragon heartstring; it had once belonged to his grandfather. Draco eagerly took it from Shacklebolt's massive hands, all thoughts of being a prisoner flying out of his mind. His fingers stroked the polished wood, thumb brushing against a small scratch near the tip that Abraxas Malfoy had made as a boy.  
He was so busy handling his wand with relief and something close to rapture that he didn't notice the large Auror looking at him. Finally, he glanced over – and did a double take. Shacklebolt looked almost uneasy.  
Draco gripped the wand tighter, sure that they would snatch it away from him.  
"What?" he bit out, willing the man to stop looking at him like that. As if he was to be pitied.  
"It's not yours," Shacklebolt said quietly.  
"Of course it's mine." The well of frustration from earlier began to crack at the seams. "This was my grandfather's wand. Abraxas Malfoy, I'm sure you've heard? He promised it to me when I was no taller than his knee, so don't tell me that it's not my wand."  
The Auror was shaking his head slowly, still watching Draco with that damned expression. "It's a replica; an indistinct wand that you responded to during the core diagnostic." He gestured to the long white rod.  
Draco shook his head, fingers still curled loosely around the wand. "It's his. My grandfather's. There's a notch."  
Something sharp and painful crossed the Auror's blunt face as he glanced away. "The wand was transfigured, using a process that chose a form you'd feel most comfortable with." He glanced back at him. "They snapped your wand after the trial."  
Draco felt the air sway around him, making a loud rushing noise as it went by. His wand? Snapped in half? He barely felt a pair of small hands grasping his elbow and leading him to a chair. The edge bit painfully into his thigh as he half-sat on the seat, but he didn't care. Vague memories flitted across his mind; a tall man with proud features and icy cold blue eyes; his mother's face beautiful with a cool smile he strived to make a single feather float inches from the tip of his wand.  
His stomach pitched alarmingly and he gagged. A hand forced him down until his chest was nearly pressed against his knees and he couldn't resist. He heaved and retched, a thin stream of partially digested food spilling out. The mixture of bile and orange coating his throat caused him to gag again, until there was nothing left but air and sore muscles.  
Draco trembled as he remained slumped against his knees, not wanting to straighten and look at the two witnesses to his humiliating display. They were probably thinking what a pansy he was being, and at how weak and ridiculous the Malfoy heir had become. Pansy, pansy. What a stupid name for a pureblood. He laughed, and the weak, hysterical sound of it shamed him.

He realized he was still holding on to the hated thing, the false wand, and threw it away from him furiously.  
He could hear Shacklebolt walking toward it, stooping miles down to pick it up. He could see the lower half of the deep red robes coming toward him. Finally, he dragged his gaze up. The man held the wand out in his thick fingers. "It does have spell restrictions on it, but it has plenty of other necessary capabilities."  
Draco looked at the wand for a long time. Finally, he reached out, curled his fingers around it, and pulled it to his lap. With thoughtful deliberation, he turned his head and spit out some more of the bile from his mouth.  
The first order of business was to buy something he could wear. Shacklebolt gave him his thick, dark cloak to cover his prisoner robes, and he was only minimally glad at the loan when they walked out into the blustery day. He had to ride a child's side-along broom out of Parkhurst until they reached another facility, a minor branch of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. There, he was told to keep the large cloak as he waited for a quarter of an hour in a small room with a narrow table and a mug of coffee. He sipped the dark brew with some distaste, but he was far more thirsty than finicky.

He had thought a while about this. If they intended to 'release' him under supervision, he might be able to get more answers about his past out than in custody. However, Shacklebolt seemed like a tough nut to crack. That mousy little mediwitch, she should prove easier to break.  
When Shacklebolt reappeared, Draco crossed his arms. "I hope you're not thinking of taking me to Madame Malkin's. If I'm going to be 'anonymous, it'd be ridiculous to in one of the most highly populated areas this side of London and Oxford. "

Shacklebolt raised an eyebrow. "I have no intention of taking you to a highly populated area your first day out." Draco paused at this, and he almost missed the smirk on Shacklebolt's face as the Auror turned away. "Besides. Madame Malkin isn't too fond of convicts in her shop."

Draco turned his head away, and ignored him as he left again.  
His father would tell him that a Malfoy did not hide. His father would stroll into Madame Malkin's with the Auror and mediwitch in tow, curl his lip and treat them like peons, all while reassuring the Madame that her continued loyalty was greatly appreciated and, in time, this little misunderstanding would be resolved. He would keep a stiff upper lip and face down all of his naysayers. He wouldn't approve of his only son meekly huddling in the corner of a shabby little Ministry waiting room.  
Yet Draco couldn't tear himself from the shoddy, wooden chair. He took hold of the wand gingerly, reluctantly tapping the side of the cup. "Aguamenti." A trickle of water spurted out unsteadily, and he dumped the first cupful on the other side of the table. Who knew how long it had been sitting there, or who had touched it last. Even an added Scourgify did not completely satisfy him, and he finally drank with the air of someone expecting poison.  
The door opened slightly and the little medimouse assigned to him scurried in. The witch approached him with some hesitance, wand loosely posed in her fingers. He found it just as irritating that when she wasn't quaking in trepidation, she looked as if she were itching to poke her wand by his head. He had never enjoyed hospitals; each visit that he could remember was filled with brisk and haughty men clinically prodding and poking his arms and chest while commenting to his father how small he was for his age.  
Instead of answering her inquiring look, he propped his chin on his elbow and stared at his cup of water. He ignored her wand waving and focused on what he had seen and heard so far. However paranoid the Aurors were – one just had to remember Mad Eye Moody's long stint as one – they were a tenacious lot. There wasn't much to examine.

He fingered the wand with distaste. Its well-polished surface still felt familiar and comforting no matter how many times he reminded himself it was not his wand. In all his years, he had never heard of any prison issuing neutral wands with restrictions laid on them.

Draco mused on the workings of it. If that strange device did possess the ability to find a suitable wand to complement his own unique ability, then it was a far more advanced charm than he had ever heard of. There were ways to examine spells active and spells lingering in an area, one could evoke former incantations from a wand itself, and from what he could recall, there were diagnostic spells that would appraise the extent of outside magic in the wizard's body.  
To be fair, though, he had never finished his schooling. He was worse than Marcus Flint. His eyes closed, and for a moment, he could hardly bear to breathe. This was no dream – the inside of his elbow was covered in thin bruises that still ached - but that didn't rule out a hallucination or worse. What could anyone hope to accomplish by fooling him so completely? Humiliation? Information? Yes, the scenario would encourage him to confess to a betrayal that he thought was ten years old.  
Who had been accused of Dumbledore's murder? There was only the word of four Death Eaters and a crazed werewolf murderer. Had Professor Snape taken the fall? An image of the Potions master's sallow face, always framed by dank, black locks wearing a dour sneer came up suddenly. His eyes opened and he shot a glance at the intent Healer.  
"Who came up on charges for Dumbledore's death?" His voice sounded harsh and raw, even to his own ears. Holcomb seemed startled to find her patient aware and glaring at her. She fumbled briefly with her wand, and Draco had a sudden vision of snatching it from her fingers and pressing it against her throat, demanding answers. He would be in control then.  
"I do not know. I was just starting Beauxbatons when it happened." She inched back from him slightly, as if sensing his thoughts. Or perhaps it was the malevolent glare on his face. It could have been that.  
"Every imbecile and twit would have heard the news, especially if they were in another magical school." His father's voice flowed through him effortlessly, and he leaned forward. Every muscle was tense, and the urge to seize the wand she was rapidly twisting in her fingers grew.  
Her eyes were wide, and she was breathing fast. "I had heard, but there were only rumors and half-formed ideas on the culprit. Please, not even your news reported much fact, Monsieur, I—" He jerked over the table and swiped toward her hands, but his fingers only met air. She was backing up quickly, babbling in such rapid French that he could barely understand the English parts.

He lunged again, missing her wand but so close it nearly brushed his forehead as she cried, "I'm sorry, Monsieur Malfoy! Stupefy!" He didn't even see the red flash before blackness descended on him.

The scent of blueberries and something sharper, like a dirty feline, reached his nose. His head throbbed, all he could see was a blurry light, and he was afraid the occasional sound of sniveling was coming from him. Unsteadily, he lifted his head from a particularly lumpy pillow, the wash of colors clearing slowly. Shacklebolt was sitting next to him, arms crossed over his barrel of a chest. Behind him, Holcomb was dabbing at her eyes and glancing nervously between him and the third figure in the room.  
If the female Weasley was easy to recognize, then Malcolm Baddock was even more so. He remembered him as a promising first year, a wily second year, and then a third year that had yet to be caught by a prefect during the weekly after-curfew patrols, including himself.

He had been a sly, handsome child, and he had grown into a stoic, handsome man. Draco's gut twisted. He had just seen him less than a month ago, barely growing into his gangly figure and an appreciation of his female classmates.  
Now he was sporting the deep red robe of an Auror.  
Draco let out a brief chuckle, which turned into a wince. Pain clanged around his head lazily, and his vision swam briefly. Shacklebolt stuck his massive fingers against one eyelid and pushed up, much to Draco's irritation. "It's not enough that my Healer tries to knock the rest of my memories out, now you're sticking your dirty fingers in my eye?" His father's voice seemed to have abandoned him for a papery croak.  
When the giant finger was removed from his vision, he could see Malcolm studying him with no expression on his face. It was like looking into the face of a stranger. It _was _the face of a stranger.  
This world was a stranger, and his own life would be unfamiliar and surprising. "I want to know what happened. What happened to my father and Professor Snape? Why am I really being locked away?" He stared at Malcolm, willing him to give him an explanation and prove he was on his side.  
Malcolm watched him for several long moments. Slytherins respected power, but Draco had to appeal to him without any power, and without any knowledge. He could offer nothing but a possibly tarnished name and whatever possessions he might have left. It seemed implausible that it would be enough.  
Malcolm turned to Shacklebolt. "How could you leave a Healer alone with him? It was pure luck that he hadn't grabbed her wand, murdered her, and escaped."  
Shacklebolt barely glanced at the younger man. "Everyone was under strict orders not to enter the room without supervision."  
"Then you should have placed sensors to alert you when someone entered the room. The name Malfoy is still a power to be reckoned with, and anyone could have been persuaded to assist him in escaping." Malcolm's eyes swept over the cowed Healer in contempt before shooting back to Shacklebolt.  
Shacklebolt didn't so much as lift an eyebrow at the rebuke. "I suppose," he said very mildly, "that you would prefer the assignment?"  
Malcolm shot the older Auror a wary glance, full of shrewd calculation. "I know that if the Daily Prophet hears that we've let a high-profile Dark wizard escape just after being convicted, we will never live it down. I _prefer_ that we treat him like a very dangerous Dark wizard, and not an errant student who was nicking goods from the kitchen. Without any conclusive evidence of this memory loss, I find its longevity doubtful at best. Even if it is genuine, he was a Death Eater at age sixteen. We can't afford to be lax, no matter his condition."  
Draco couldn't quite pinpoint if Malcolm was attempting to hinder or improve the situation. He suspected the former. Shacklebolt only looked thoughtful, placing his fingers underneath his chin and stroking. "You're right. We've been reluctant to expend precious resources on what appears to be a queer case. Could you imagine what the Daily Prophet would say if they found out only one Auror was minding the treacherous Draco Malfoy? In fact..." he stroked his chin again, giving a faint, innocuous smile, "...who better than to guard him than an increasingly prominent and accomplished young Auror?"  
Malcolm's lips tightened briefly, before he returned a bland smile. "Despite my recent good publicity, I'm afraid my past connection with the convict could easily be distorted by one scandal-greedy article."  
"Nonsense." Shacklebolt smiled wider, "nobody would place the blame on you if your former classmate were to escape under your nose. In fact, I think this puts you in a unique situation to more fully understand our amnesiac schoolboy."  
Malcolm opened his mouth to protest, but Shacklebolt cut him off. "Now, please send an owl back to the Department to let them know of your assignment change. I will await your return quite anxiously." The younger man whirled on his heel, causing Draco to wonder dimly if Professor Snape and the Magical Law Enforcement employed the same tailor. He had always wanted his robes to billow like that.  
Despite the headache and general agitation, Draco had watched the interaction silently. Waiting and watching. He had resolved earlier in the day that he would be the picture of silent scrutiny. While internal strife between the Aurors might not reveal the information he was seeking, it could be valuable later.  
Shacklebolt motioned to Holcomb, who to her credit, only cringed slightly. "I must ask that you heed my orders better in the future. Auror Baddock is correct that you could have been killed long before we arrived. It was little more than chance that you managed to stun him; he won't be so slow-witted in the future."  
Draco bristled at that as Holcomb tentatively inched toward him, sweeping her wand above his forehead. It took a great deal of self-control and self-reminders that being hit by Shacklebolt would be a lot like getting bludgeoned with a medieval hammer to keep still. He had respect for a man with the most influence in any situation.  
"When will someone answer my questions? I would even settle for a few scandal-hungry Daily Prophets about now. They may lie, but at least its information," Draco said cuttingly. Surprisingly, Holcomb's brown eyes filled his vision briefly, as she looked down at him.

"If I were you, Monsieur Malfoy," she said primly, "I would be very careful to separate the lies from the truth."  
And for the second time in this strange world, Draco did not know how to respond.

Author's Notes: Thanks again to my lovely and brilliant beta, Divine Delacour. This wouldn't have been submitted without her. I would adore reviews, but if you don't have anything nice to say, don't send it.


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